She held my heart till the very end,
crushing it since the moment I gave it
my heart, a broken machine, held in glass
hurt her soft palm and thin fingers,
the blood from my heart, combined
with the blood from her veins..
our minds tricked us far away
from each other’s gravity
but our hearts, faithful drums,
still beat and bleed the same..

Poetry is not an easy task. It is like learning to beat the storm when you are stuck in its eye.

“And one night
When he and she were fast asleep
Their hearts armed with love
Gathered upon a pact to keep
Their bet on who loved harder
His heart talked till tire
Hers was a silent desire
Slowly the return to the start
When she was all fire
And he, only a silent desire
On the way back, the two humbled hearts
Forgot the way
And now
Hers beats in him
and his inside her.”

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Whispers of Immortality is the essence of poetry writing. It is the freedom to make mistakes, experience life and to walk one's own path.
Robert Frost put it aptly about poetry, “A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”